


Red

by cinnamonsnaps



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Dark, M/M, Strawberry Picking, i guess there's fluff depends how you read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:04:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamonsnaps/pseuds/cinnamonsnaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Standing in a field for hours picking enough strawberries to humour the whims of your bake-a-holic dad in a summer heatwave, sure. That's not backbreaking labour at all."<br/>"Dave shut up! Seriously! You will enjoy this."<br/>That reassuring, almost enviable grin in all its sincerity. Dave couldn't withstand that force for any given length of time.<br/>He agreed to go strawberry picking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> um i really don't know what to make of this  
> i went strawberry picking and though "ooh jd fluff"
> 
> but it turned into this
> 
> picking titles is hard

John grinned, sun sparkling off his glasses as the train pulled in at the station, direct from the city centre and hopefully with his best friend on board. It was a heatwave, a record breaker that bleached and killed the grass and tinted everything golden, and John's skin was already stained darker with melatonin and over exposure - the opposite of a photograph, Dave noted, as he stepped off the train. He himself just burned like a lobster. Not an attractive look.  
John waved happily, thumbing a gesture at his Dad's car. "Ready?"  
"Ready to work my ass off? Sure."  
"It's hardly work at all."  
"Standing in a field for hours picking enough strawberries to humour the whims of your bake-a-holic dad in a summer heatwave, sure. That's not backbreaking labour at all."  
"Dave shut up! Seriously! You will enjoy this."  
That reassuring, almost enviable grin in all its sincerity. Dave couldn't withstand that force for any given length of time.  
He agreed to go strawberry picking.

The ride from train station to farm took a good hour, but really, none of the three minded at all. John commandeered the radio quickly, putting in a CD mixtape that Dave had made for him recently. Dave would have blushed, if he wasn't too cool for that.   
(He blushed anyway, and blamed it on Dadbert's faulty air conditioning and tiny car windows.)  
"It's actually really good, Dad, listen," he said, and from his perch in the backseats, Dave would have to agree. But this wasn't a mixtape meant to played in front of family, he'd put heart and soul into this making it perfect for John, it almost held a piece of him now, and Dad Egbert being able to hear such brutal honesty laid out in chords and choruses and lazy laid back basslines to pick apart Dave down to his very bones was something he almost couldn't stand-  
but neither Egbert seemed to be uncomfortable. Dad tapped his foot along. John threw him an easy smile. Dave relaxed.

The sun was a relentless companion throughout, during the transition from suburban high street train station to rolling fields and leafy pockets of trees. Dave put an arm on the window, and leaned on it, head sticking out into the rushing air to seek relief from the oppressive heat.  
His hair was being completely ruined, but John watched him in the mirror of the car as if he was a model in a television ad. Or maybe Dave was adding context to where John was simply laughing at him.  
"You're like a dog!"  
"A darn handsome dog, and you know it. Look at the breeze gently ruffling these locks, follicles flying straight and true because damn kid I'm worth it."  
John giggled, and in an impression of the windswept boy he could see in the mirror, flipped his hair back over his scalp and pulled his lips far away from his teeth. A pug in a wind tunnel.  
Dave fell off the window with laughter.

Dad parked under the shade of a huge oak tree on top of a hill, the sides in front falling away to long fields of corn and barley, unevenly chopped off by forest islands and jigsaw hedges. It was quiet, almost silent bar the radio playing in the makeshift shed offering pick-your-own punnets to hold fruit in. Dad took four.  
"We need a lot of strawberries," he told boys, giving them a punnet each. "I only make jam every three years."  
"That's because we never eat all of it! You make so much jam, seriously," John grumbled, taking his punnet almost begrudgingly. "Nobody needs twenty jars."  
"They make good gifts and cake filling."  
"But... twenty jars!"  
Dave looked around as the two bickered, realising they were in the middle of ass backwards nowhere and nobody would hear him scream.   
"The strawberry fields are just down there, love," the woman in the shed prompted them, pointing past a small orchard.   
Dad Egbert tipped his hat, leading the way in long strides. John walked behind a bit, keeping level with Dave and jumping through unmown clumps of grass that tickled his bare shins. The heat was making him sweat a little, and he wished he had sunglasses like Dave did. "He's so crazy. Can we swap glasses?"  
Dave snorted. "Nope."  
"I gave you those ones, can I have them back?"  
"Hell no. What the fuck kind of gift giver are you, asking for your gift back when the going gets rough-" He quickly dodged an errant bee, making an altogether uncourageous and undignified noise. It was John's turn to snort.  
"Relax, city kid. Bees are nice! They don't sting you unless they have to."  
"A shade too close to the devilspawn known as wasps for me to love them," Dave mutters, kicking a dandelion. Nature wasn't his strong point.  
But John was an outdoors person when he wasn't marathonning films with Dave, and he merely took Dave's hand and yanked him a little faster towards the crop. He fit right in with the golden green and powder blue sky of summer, and Dave felt horribly out of place in designer skinny jeans and red Converse. An anachronism, like an iphone in an episode of Lark Rise (which he only watched because John had dragged him over for a sleepover, and of course Daddy Egbert got first pick of the television, so of course they watched the dumb period drama which wasn't at all intriguing or kind of gripping shut up). An electricity pylon in a meadow.

It was when he stepped onto the hay covered field, between the rows of low strawberry plants, and he could see bright red glowing at him from beneath the stalks, that he first started feeling less like he tagged along and more like part of the scene. John picked the first one, bending down by Dave and holding it against the sunlight to check for mold. It passed his scrutineous gaze, and he offered it to Dave.  
"Um, nah. That shit's unsanitary."  
"Don't be dumb!" John dug out the stalk before eating the whole thing, making a thoughtful face. Dave raised an eyebrow.   
"Not meant to eat the strawberries at a PYO, bro. That's stealing."  
He swallowed quickly, grinning at Dave with red stained teeth. "It's one strawberry! And besides, the birds have probably eaten waaay more." Dave sniggered and pointed to his own chin, trying to alert John to the fact a small dribble of red juice was rolling down from his lips. Well, Dave would have sniggered. He was struck dumb, strangely, by the bead of red. It almost looked like John's lips had been cut savagely.  
Dad Egbert's hand waved distantly from lower down the rows, and John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, red smearing lightly across it. "We're coming!"  
And of course, Dave followed him down.

The picking was much better away from where the best strawberries had already been taken, and Dave was pretty proud of himself. Half a punnet full already, strawberries all uniformly the same shape and size. As near carbon copies to the original stolen strawberry John had picked as possible. His t-shirt was pretty disusting now with sweat and a few flecks of strawberry juice, but he kind of didn't mind. His skin was beginning to turn red too. He decided to step up the ante, turning leaves over and picking strawberries at a rapid pace -   
until he picked a strawberry with a huge spider on it.  
"Nope," he said quietly, dropping it. "Nope, nope nope nope NOPE. NOPE." His gradual yelling brought over a worried John, who watched as Dave flew back, waving his hand and wiping it on his jeans. His own punnet was nearly full of strawberries of all sizes, some too ripe, some near white and green still with how raw they were. Okay. So Dave was a pretty squeamish guy when it came to insects. He could dissect an animal's chest and play with its heartstrings, but this was too much. John found himself giggling. "Dave."  
"Nope."  
"Dave -"  
"Oh god I think I touched it, I must chop off this hand -"  
"Dave!"  
"I've been bitten by a spider and I don't even get a cool costume, just a load of spider herpes and probably AIDS -"  
"You haven't been bitten!" He threw an overripe strawberry at Dave's face, satisfied with the mushy splat it made. Dave froze. "Calm down Dave, jeez!"  
Dark globs of red rolled down Dave's shades, which caught John out for a second as it looked so much like animal flesh. Not that he's seen much, apart from the dead brown flatness on roads beneath car tyres, or sterilized slabs in the kitchen devoid of animal resemblance. But the squashed fruit reminded him of the fake gore in movies and slashers, and he wondered, oddly, if Dave was the villain. A funny thought. Was John victim or accomplice?  
Dave stared at him, before averting his eyes to take off his shades. John regretted that. He'd wanted to see Dave's eyes, but maybe later, when they weren't being blinded by daylight. Dave said nothing as he cleaned them with an errant clump of hay, nor when he resorted to wiping them on his jeans in order to get the stickiness off, a process hindered by the hot glare of the sun. John tried to bite back his giggles even worse, nose beginning to flare with effort. That was a good shot.  
Covering his eyes once more with his sunglasses, Dave shook his head. "Now you done fucked up."   
He quickly grabbed a strawberry, taking a menacing step towards John, who just waggled his fingers and grinned wider.   
"Take your best shot, Strider. You've got really bad aim!"  
"Oh, I don't intend to throw this," he said, before lurching forward and smashing the strawberry into John's cheek, squeezing and popping the smooth-bumpy skin until rivulets of red dripped onto John's shirt collar.   
"Dave, no!" John squealed, trying to push his hand away and wipe off the fruit, but Dave was relentless. He smeared the soggy mess all over John's face, other hand grabbing John's hand to stop it counter attacking. The effect was hilarious, yet sinister. The juice dried darker at the edges.  
John looked at him with a sincerely unimpressed face, streaks of colour rolling down his nose and past his eyes, as if bleeding from blunt trauma, as if a car crash survivor. "Oh my god, Dave you absolute douche!" he yelled, and then Dave smiled, smirking, pleased with how completely he'd managed to fuck up John's face with just one strawberry. He reached out with a dribbling thumb and smeared a mark across John's forehead.  
"Now, Simba, you are part of the pride."  
"That's not even the quote! You got it completely wrong!"  
"Whatever," Dave said, deciding to concentrate on giving John cat whiskers and a moustache. John let him, making a show of being completely done with the situation and resigning himself to his fate.   
"You're an asshole."  
"You're wearing lipstick." And Dave dragged his thumb across John's lips, spreading out the stain until it blossomed like a rose, or a kiss. John let him, watching him with eyes either hooded with weariness, wariness, or the midday sun through his lenses.   
Dave's cheeks were red and shiny. It was from where he'd been bending down to pick strawberries, exerting himself. Everything was strange.  
"Boys!" The chastising voice of Father Egbert cut through where the built up buzzing and chirping of the crickets and bees had been, slicing through the sheer block of hazy heat and strawberry smell that collected above the square of plants. "Stop wasting strawberries! The poor lady in the shed wants us to pay for what we pick!"  
They pulled apart, John making a face and Dave stooping to pick up his punnet again, colliding with John's elbow on the way down.   
"We didn't 'waste' any!"  
Dad approached, hanky out. "All over your face is not what I'd call productive."  
John grabbed the hanky, spitting on it before taking his glasses off to wipe his face. While his eyes were hidden, Dad turned to give Dave a sneaky smile and a thumbs up. Nice prank, son. You got 'im good.  
Dave concentrated on kneading his nose and trying to figure out how to get sugary mess off every part of his hands and glasses. The hanky was proffered, a pink tattered flag for agriculturally based conflict everywhere, but he declined.  
"Don't want no Egbert saliva cooties," he mumbled, admiring the damage left on John's face.  
His darker skin was tinted as if bruised, false tear trails left behind on the sallow skin under his eyes, but the widest most evil grin Dave had ever seen splitting his mouth open. "What's wrong with my saliva cooties?"  
"You look like a mess."  
"You look worse." He made a 'pfft' noise. "Nice hair."  
The juice was leaching up his white hair, he realised, turning it horribly pink. "It's gonna be a bitch to wash out, fuck."  
"Language," Dad said, holding a strawberry menacingly from where he was already walking back to the car, both punnets full of expertly picked fruit.  
Dave started to follow, but was held back. "Wait," John said, before rummaging down in the leaves to pull out a clean, well ripened strawberry. He pulled out the stalk carefully, turning it over for signs of bugs, before holding it out for Dave again. "I can't believe you've never done this before. Eat it."  
"No, thanks bro, but I've seen the kind of eight legged monsters that sunbathe of these things for fun so nah -"  
"No spiders, I promise." He held up his hand, strawberry trapped in his fingers, holding it close to Dave's mouth in order to feed him. A new bead of red burst at his fingertip. Dave made a face.  
"Don't be like that. This is meant to be a sour variety specifically for jams, but the heat's made them smaller and sweeter than usual. They're great to eat, try it."   
"It's stolen."  
"Stop being a wimp. You will enjoy it, trust me."  
Too big for one bite, he decided. He halved it with his teeth, biting from John's hand.  
It was warm, disconcertingly so from the sun. Sweet, but still the bite of sourness that he couldn't decide if he liked. He swallowed.  
"Was alright," he shrugged, feeling something trickle from the corner of his lips. It was red. He licked it away.   
It tasted of metal and acidic sugar.  
And John grinned, and laughed, and ate the other half, sucking his fingers clean and so gloriously happy about crossing this one off the list. Dave was less than happy with the way dust flew up from where John ran ahead back to the car and stuck to his shades. Red stuck to his sneakers where he'd trodden on the fruit, and hay and dirt clung to his knees. 

He sat beside John on a tree root, gazing at the view while Dad paid for the punnets by weight. The sun was still high and the tree was the only shade, cool and breezy at the top of the hill. A bottle of water was produced, and John washed Dave's hands for him, reaching between the knuckles to turn him skin pink again, as opposed to fruit pink. It was tender, and cooled his hands down, and heated his face up. The car blocked them off from where Dad had an amiable conversation about the merits of lemon juice in various jams with the fruit seller.  
"Can I clean your glasses?" John asked him the question outright, face devoid of any mocking facet. "I know how annoying it is when mine get gunk all over them, and I know how not to scratch them for you, which is even more annoying. When they get scratches and all."  
Here, in the dappled shade where shards of blue shone through to make sure the shade didn't forget the sun completely, Dave took off his shades once more. He passed them to John, wet fingers brushing wet fingers, and John poured water on them, and rubbed them clean with his soft t-shirt.  
And all traces of red were gone now from Dave's hands, and Dave's shades, and all that was left was the red of his eyes, averted once more from John's gaze.  
John passed him back his shades, but held onto his hand. "Can I see them?"  
And every colour that had taunted Dave, the yellow green grass stalks and iced sugardust blue sky and above all the red, red strawberry skin like sin against hay became amplified and brighter under his own gaze, as if his eyes were letting more light in, as if his heart had double timed the beat for no good reason -   
The footfalls of Dad Egbert caused him to place the shades back on his face and say nothing, once again. "Nah, no offense but I'mma keep these babies under wraps for now. World can't handle them, all that jazz. Maybe when you're older and won't die on sight under this killer gaze."  
"Haha oh my god shut up. You're so conceited, I swear."  
And he sighed.

When the train carried him back to his innercity junction, he had to sit on the opposite side of the carriage when the glare and hopeful brightness of the sun became too much.


End file.
